Free Burn by John Lutz

I can help it.”
    “I don’t blame you for taking precautions,” Carver said. “And you went about things the right way, not just buying a gun, but learning how to use it.”
    “I’ve become proficient,” she said. It sounded like a threat.
    “How long have you known Marla Cloy?”
    “About three months. After she moved here from Orlando, she answered my ad in the Gazette-Dispatch. I’m a proofreader and word-processor operator, and she writes on a typewriter or in longhand. Some of the periodicals she sells to have a policy of requesting the articles on disk. And she needed someone to proofread and prepare manuscripts for her larger assignments, to help her meet deadlines.”
    “Do you work out of your home?”
    “Yes. I’ve turned the spare bedroom into my office.”
    “So your business relationship with Marla blossomed into friendship.”
    Willa seemed to become resigned to the fact that she was stuck with Carver for a while. She moved to a chair and sat down. “We got along well. Then, when that creep started to stalk Marla, we had a special empathy. As I said, I’m a recovering rape victim. I know the kind of terror she feels.”
    “Has she expressed her fear of this man to you?”
    “Several times. I’ve tried to get her to buy a gun for self-defense and take up target shooting, but she doesn’t want to. She will eventually, though. She’s that afraid.”
    “Do you think her fear is genuine? I mean, we have to make sure in a case like this.”
    Willa’s upper lip drew back over small, yellowed teeth, making her appear even more like a rodent. “Of course it’s genuine! I’ve felt the kind of fear she’s feeling now, and I can recognize it when I see it in someone else. My God, why wouldn’t she be afraid? She’s being stalked by a dangerous maniac.”
    “We’re trying to do something about that,” Carver said.
    “But you can’t do anything,” Willa said. “I know how the system works—or doesn’t work. The man hasn’t broken any laws until he’s killed her. Then it’s too late.”
    “There’s a law against stalking people.”
    She distorted her mouth in disdain. “It’s a crime that’s difficult to prove until the victim is dead.”
    “You have a point. I won’t pretend it isn’t a problem.” Carver rested a hand on the crook of his cane. “Just for the record, do you regard Marla Cloy as stable and not the sort of person who might imagine things?”
    “Of course she’s stable! It’s that Joel Brant sicko who isn’t stable. She’s not some kind of nut! This is just the kind of thing a woman can expect—Marla’s the one being persecuted and here you are blaming her for what’s going on. It’s too bad you won’t be able to arrest her for her own murder!”
    “Take it easy, Willa. I agree with you. Nobody’s trying to blame Marla Cloy for anything. It’s just that I have to ask these questions, establish the facts. Maybe someday the law will be changed.”
    “Some of us can’t wait.”
    “What sort of stuff does Marla Cloy write?”
    “Whatever she can sell, I guess. Newspaper and magazine articles, short stories. A poem, once. She’s been trying to sell a book, but that isn’t easy. Marla says you can’t sell a book without an agent, and you can’t get an agent unless you’ve sold a book.”
    “Sounds like a lot of businesses,” Carver said. “But Marla seems to be doing OK.”
    “She makes enough to pay the rent and buy groceries,” Willa said. “Like most of us. It isn’t easy for a woman alone.”
    “I guess not,” Carver said. He shifted his weight over the cane and stood up.
    “Guess is all you can do. There’s no way a man could understand how it is being part of an oppressed minority.”
    “Aren’t there more women than men in the country?” Carver asked.
    Willa smiled, but not in a nice way at all. “You better hope we never all pull together.”
    Carver went over to the crucifix and gun display, trying to imagine Beth and